Friends of a Sort
by ncfan
Summary: "Is it just me, or have we been running into him for six months now?"


I own nothing.

* * *

Their first meeting, involving an impromptu trip down into the depths of a river, was not perhaps the most positive possible, but for reasons Mithrellas isn't always sure of, Nimrodel seems to have decided that she likes her. Likes her enough to have let her stay in her own house until Mithrellas had built one of her own, and likes her enough not to object that said house was right next to her own, as she had with the rest of the group Mithrellas arrived with. Oh certainly, houses eventually sprung up around Nimrodel's, and she couldn't do a thing about it, but she just as certainly isn't happy about it, and to this day refuses to speak anything but Nandorin to anyone, despite everyone, Mithrellas included, knowing that she can speak Sindarin and Quenya quite well.

Yes, that does seem to be Nimrodel's particular pet peeve. Mithrellas quickly learned from association with her that Nimrodel does not like much of anything to do with those not of the Nandor. She does not like the Noldor, Kinslayers who brought death and war to Middle-Earth. She has barely any more use for the Sindar, whom she believes to have only escalated the violence. She even dislikes the name the many Sindar now inhabiting Lindórinand have given the wood. No longer is it the Vale of the Land of the Singers. Now to many, even, Nimrodel laments, to her own people, it is Lothlórien, Lórien of the Blossom, Dream-flower.

Needless to say, with such an attitude, Nimrodel has won few friends among the incomers to Lothlórien. The vast majority of them are refugees from now-sunken Beleriand, mourning lost homes and kith and kin. Most of them want least to hear a native of the Wood who, in their feeling has not suffered nearly enough to judge them passing judgment on so arbitrary a thing as their blood. These Sindar and Noldor do not look at all happy when they see Nimrodel entering their marketplaces, and frankly, the feeling seems to be quite mutual.

But that's what Mithrellas is for, she supposes.

Mithrellas herself is a more laid-back sort of person. She'd rather not enquire into the pasts of the Elves around her, knowing as she does that it's likely only to cause trouble and make getting on in this new community more difficult than it was going to be to start with. And she does like Nimrodel, who for all her irritability and dislike of outsiders, is kind enough to her, and treats her as a friend. Which, in Mithrellas's opinion, likely explains why Nimrodel always insists that Mithrellas accompany her to the market when she's looking for something; it's left most of the newcomers with the strong impression that Mithrellas is Nimrodel's maidservant, a fair but inaccurate interpretation.

"Even more Noldor today," Nimrodel mutters in Nandorin as they walk through the open market of the town that just sprung up unexpectedly some fifty years ago, like a mushroom after heavy rain. "Mark my words, before long the Wood will be infested with them."

"Oh, don't complain, Nimrodel; more Elves means that the town will be more easily protected against Orcs and such."

Nimrodel tips her chin up, gray eyes glinting, and Mithrellas nearly laughs at the sight of that familiar face, almost comical in its disquiet, until she remembers that Nimrodel does not like being laughed at one bit. "I am _not _complaining, Mithrellas, but I do find a bit of a hole in your theory, the fact that you think that having more of the Noldor here will actually help keep us safe, rather than—Ohh!"

The two of them round a corner and Nimrodel nearly walks headlong into someone coming from the opposite direction. Mithrellas, who was walking behind the taller nís (since this has been a particularly narrow path), peeks around Nimrodel's shoulder and can barely restrain a grin at who she sees standing there. "Good morning, Lord Amroth," she greets him cheerily, since Nimrodel's sharp tongue seems to have thoroughly tied itself into a knot, as it often does when she happens to meet him.

If there is one thing Mithrellas does not understand, it is the Sindarin (and Noldorin; the two groups seem to have this much in common) system of governing. Yes, she understands the concepts of Kings and Princes and Lords, but the Nandor have never believed that a ruler should have absolute power over the fates of his subjects, as so many among the Sindar and the Noldor do. Mithrellas is no exception to that rule; she frankly finds the concept of there being a single person who could order the deaths of any number of his subjects at any time to be rather alarming.

Be that as it may, this is the system that the Sindarin rulers of Lothlórien have adopted, and young Prince Amroth, son of King Amdír, can often be found in the marketplace in the mornings, when he has no other duties to attend to. In fact, Mithrellas and Nimrodel have been running into him quite often lately. "Good morning," he responds, smiling.

Nimrodel's face goes red and she grabs Mithrellas's hand, barely pausing to nod to Amroth before dragging her friend away down the street. This time, Mithrellas doesn't bother not to laugh. "Is it just me, Nimrodel, or have we encountered Prince Amroth at the market, without fail, every day we have gone for the past six months now?"

"Oh, hush," Nimrodel snaps, her face just going even redder. Mithrellas laughs again, and stores this little snippet of information away for later teasing.

* * *

Nís—woman (plural: nissi)


End file.
